‘To do which he must have been scared out of his wits.’

MacAskill shrugged. ‘Still not murder. The crux is, were they trying to scare him, or kill him?’

‘I’ll be sure to ask them.’

‘It’s got a gang feel to it: drugs maybe, or a loan he’d stopped repaying, somebody he’d ripped off.’ MacAskill returned to his chair. He opened a drawer and took out a can of Irn-Bru, opened it and started to drink. He never went to the pub after work, didn’t share the whisky when the team got a result. Soft drinks only: more ammo for the like-your-loafers brigade. He asked Rebus if he wanted a can.

‘Not while I’m on duty, sir.’

MacAskill stifled a burp. ‘Get a bit more background on the victim, John, let’s see if it leads anywhere. Remember to chase forensics for fingerprint ID on the carry-out, and pathology for the PM results. Did he do drugs, that’s question one in my mind. Make things easier for us if he did. Unsolved, and we don’t even know how to frame it – not the sort of case I want to drag to the new station. Understood, John?’

‘Unquestionably, sir.’

He turned to go, but the boss hadn’t quite finished. ‘That trouble over … what was the name again?’

‘Spaven?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Spaven, yes. Quietened down yet, has it?’

‘Quiet as the grave,’ Rebus lied, making his exit.

3

That evening – a long-standing engagement – Rebus was at a rock concert at Ingliston Showground, an American headliner with a couple of biggish-name British acts supporting. Rebus was part of a team of eight, four different city stations represented, providing back-up (meaning protection) for Trading Standards sniffers. They were looking for bootleg gear – T-shirts and programmes, tapes and CDs – and had the full support of the bands’ management. This meant backstage passes, liberal use of the hospitality marquee, a lucky-bag of official merchandising. The lackey passing out the bags smiled at Rebus.

‘Maybe your kids or grandkids …’ Thrusting the bag at him. He’d bitten back a remark, passed straight to the booze tent, where he couldn’t decide between the dozens of hooch bottles, so settled for a beer, then wished he’d taken a nip of Black Bush, so eased the unopened bottle into his lucky-bag.

They had two vans parked outside the arena, way back behind the stage, filling with counterfeiters and their merchandise. Maclay weaved back to the vans nursing a set of knuckles.

‘Who did you pop, Heavy?’

Maclay shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow, a Michelangelo cherub turned bad.

‘Some choob was resisting,’ he said. ‘Had a suitcase with him. I punched a hole right through it. He didn’t resist after that.’

Rebus looked into the back of a van, the one holding bodies. A couple of kids, hardening already to the system, and two regulars, old enough to know the score. They’d be fined a day’s wages, the loss of their stock just another debit. The summer was young, plenty festivals to come.